Writers & Lovers. Lily King

      

Also by Lily King

       The English Teacher

       The Pleasing Hour

       Father of the Rain

       Euphoria

      Writers & Lovers

      A NOVEL

      Lily King

      Copyright © 2020 by Lily King

      COVER DESIGN BY KELLY WINTON

      COVER ARTWORK BY PAUL WONNER

      Dutch Still Life with Lemon Tart and Engagement Calendar, 1979.

      Collection SFMOMA, Charles H. Land Family Foundation Fund © Estate of Paul Wonner and William Theophilus Brown, Crocker Art Museum, Sacramento

      Geese illustrations by Calla King-Clements

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

      FIRST EDITION

       Printed in the United States of America

      First Grove Atlantic edition: March 2020

      This book was set in 11.5-pt. Bembo

      by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH

      ISBN 978-0-8021-4853-7

      eISBN 978-0-8021-4855-1

      Grove Press

      an imprint of Grove Atlantic

      154 West 14th Street

      New York, NY 10011

      Distributed by Publishers Group West

      groveatlantic.com

      20 21 22 23 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

       Contents

       Cover

Also by Lily King

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Dedication

       Writers & Lovers

       Back Cover

      For my sister, Lisa,

      with love and gratitude

      I have a pact with myself not to think about money in the morning. I’m like a teenager trying not to think about sex. But I’m also trying not to think about sex. Or Luke. Or death. Which means not thinking about my mother, who died on vacation last winter. There are so many things I can’t think about in order to write in the morning.

      Adam, my landlord, watches me walk his dog. He leans against his Benz in a suit and sparkling shoes as I come back up the driveway. He’s needy in the morning. Everyone is, I suppose. He enjoys his contrast to me in my sweats and untamed hair.

      When the dog and I are closer he says, ‘You’re up early.’

      I’m always up early. ‘So are you.’

      ‘Meeting with the judge at the courthouse at seven sharp.’

      Admire me. Admire me. Admire judge and courthouse and seven sharp.

      ‘Somebody’s gotta do it.’ I don’t like myself around Adam. I don’t think he wants me to. I let the dog yank me a few steps past him toward a squirrel squeezing through some slats at the side of his big house.

      ‘So,’ he says, unwilling to let me get too far away. ‘How’s the novel?’ He says it like I made the word up myself. He’s still leaning against his car and turning only his head in my direction, as if he likes his pose too much to undo it.

      ‘It’s all right.’ The bees in my chest stir. A few creep down the inside of my arm. One conversation can destroy my whole morning. ‘I’ve got to get back to it. Short day. Working a double.’

      I pull the dog up Adam’s back porch, unhook the leash, nudge him through the door, and drop quickly back down the steps.

      ‘How many pages you got now?’

      ‘Couple of hundred, maybe.’ I don’t stop moving. I’m halfway to my room at the side of his garage.

      ‘You know,’ he says, pushing himself off his car, waiting for my full attention. ‘I just find it extraordinary that you think you have something to say.’

      I sit at my desk and stare at the sentences I wrote before walking the dog. I don’t remember them. I don’t remember putting them down. I’m so tired. I look at the green digits on the clock radio. Less than three hours before I have to dress for my lunch shift.

      Adam went to college with my older brother, Caleb—in fact, I think Caleb was a little in love with him back then—and for this he gives me a break in the rent. He shaves off a bit more for walking his dog in the morning. The room used to be a potting shed and still has a loam and rotting leaves smell. There’s just enough space for a twin mattress, desk and chair, and hot plate, and toaster oven in the bathroom. I set the kettle back on the burner for another cup of black tea.

      I don’t write because I think I have something to say. I write because if I don’t, everything feels even worse.

      At nine thirty I get up from the chair and scrub at the sirloin and blackberry stains on my white pleated shirt, iron it dry on the desk, slip it on a hanger, and thread the hook of the hanger through the loop at the top of my backpack. I put on my black work pants and a T-shirt, pull my hair into a ponytail, and slide on the backpack.

      I wheel my bike out of the garage backward. It barely fits because of all the crap Adam has in here: old strollers, high chairs, bouncy seats, mattresses, bureaus, skis, skateboards, beach chairs, tiki torches, foosball. His ex-wife’s red minivan takes up the rest of the space. She left it behind along with everything else except the kids when she moved to Hawaii last year.

      ‘A good car go to waste like that,’ the cleaning lady said one day when she was looking for a hose. Her name is Oli, she’s from Trinidad, and she saves things like the plastic scoops from laundry detergent boxes to send back home. That garage makes Oli crazy.